


Dance Me to the End of Love

by otrame



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, POV Outsider, RTD Can Bite Me, death!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 19:03:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2079579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otrame/pseuds/otrame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was inevitable, because Ianto Jones was a mortal man.  In one universe, this is how it happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Raise a Tent of Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slightly expanded and edited version of a story I published on A Teaspoon and an Open Mind several years ago. It is my response to the travesty of Torchwood, Season 3. The titles are from Leonard Cohen.

Nurse Harris, when he met with old mates down the pub, was sometimes teased about his vocational choice. I mean, really? Taking care of a bunch of old people about to die in some hospital out in the middle of nowhere in Senegal, for fuck’s sake? Why not stay here in Joburg and save the four hour commute every two weeks and in the name of all that’s shiny take care of people who are not going to fucking _die_? 

When he shrugged and mentioned that all _their_ patients were going to die too, eventually, they accused him of being a morbid old git. But there was affection behind their confusion. They were fond of him, he knew. They just didn’t understand.

He could tell them that the hospital was new and beautiful and that the hospice section was a separate set of buildings down by the river, surrounded by gardens. He could talk about the sense of peace that seemed to permeate the place. These people were dying. The fight to stay alive was over. His job was to make their last weeks or days or hours as comfortable as possible and sometimes provide a little company. It was sad, yes, especially with some of the younger people, dying too soon of some accident or disease. But most of his charges were very old and it was, frankly, time for them to die. Harris had no problem with this. Some he became rather attached to, it was true, and he grieved when they were gone, but he knew that grief was selfish, because _he_ wanted them to stay, not because it was what was best for them, or what they wanted. Sometimes families had trouble letting go. He thought that he could help there, too, and hoped he did. He knew about that kind of grief. His village had been in the part of Tanzania where the Xerack had landed, one of eight such landfalls across the globe. Twenty years ago, now. He was, as far as he knew, the only person from his village still alive. The invasion had been beaten back, of course, but that did not make his family any less dead. 

So, he knew that those who got to hold a loved one’s hand as they died quietly at the end of a long life were very, very lucky. He did not resent the fact that they often didn’t seem to feel that way about it, because how could they know? He tried to help them understand about the nature of life, and how, at its end, there was a peace in letting go. And that was why he preferred this job. 

He walked down an open corridor now, on his way to see Mr. Jones, a new patient assigned to his team while he was off back home on his 4 days off. Studying his chart, Harris saw that Mr. Jones was only a few months shy of his hundredth birthday, had had a stroke about ten years before and was now dying as his heart slowly failed. His next of kin was listed as a grandson, but there was a hand lettered note attached stating that the grandson had been called away on business and could not be reached at the moment. Harris frowned, wondering if there was any other family. People Mr. Jones’ age had sometimes outlived everyone close to them. He would be sure to offer company if it seemed that Mr. Jones wanted it. 

He knocked very softly before entering the room. Mr. Jones appeared to be asleep. Harris knew that at his age a large percentage of time was spent asleep. Harris looked at his new patient with interest. He was _white_. It was not that there were no white people in this part of Senegal, not at all, and there were even white members of staff. But Mr. Jones was truly white, his old skin very pale, making him seem ghostlike to Harris. Harris glanced through the file again, seeing with some surprise the man had been brought here from a hospital in northern Italy, though he was a citizen of the UK. His care was being paid for not by the government but privately. Very unusual.

Harris shook his head, reminded himself that it was none of his business. He concentrated on what _was_ his business. Mr. Jones was arranged in a power bed, with the head of the bed lifted at about a 45 degree angle and the old body cradled in the mattress that accommodated itself to support him. His heart support pump whispered quietly on the bedside table. Harris checked the settings on this vital piece of equipment then noticed a photograph in a simple silver frame set next to it. 

Two men in their thirties, both very handsome in completely different ways, sat on a bench with a vast expanse of some mountainous place behind them. Their clothes looked very old-fashioned. The man on the left was larger in build than the man on the right. He was looking at the camera with a happy grin, his arm draped around the shoulders of the other man, who was looking at him with an expression that made Harris smile. Love. That was love. Harris glanced from his patient to the picture and realized that the photograph was of him, obviously long ago. The other man, the one grinning at the camera was really amazingly handsome.

And old voice said softly, “My husband.”

“It’s a nice picture,” Harris said quietly. He saw Mr. Jones smiling at it, with a faint echo of the smile in the photograph. Harris was looking over the readouts on the panel above the bed. Anything unusual or dangerous would cause an alarm to sound on his PDA but he preferred to keep an eye on the readouts even when they were normal. Or at least as normal as they were likely to be in a man nearly a century old who was dying of heart failure. After a brief pause for this, he added, “I am Nurse Harris. I will be taking care of you.”

Mr. Jones nodded. “I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Harris. May I ask you your first name?”

“I am Jonathan,”

Mr. Jones looked at him with keen blue eyes. “You are Masai, yes?”

Harris nodded. “But I have not used my Masai name for many years. In most ways, I am no longer Masai.”

“Would it be an impolite if I asked why?”

“I moved to Johannesburg when I was a child, before I old enough to become a warrior.” He shrugged, “I have not lived a Masai life, Mr. Jones.”

The old man smiled. “Will you call me Ianto, Mr. Harris? I prefer that.”

Harris smiled back at him. Many of his patients preferred first names. Others preferred more formal address. It did not matter to him. “Of course, Ianto. You will call me Jonathan?”

“Yes, Jonathan, I will. Could you give me some assistance. I need to use the toilet.”

“Of course.”

 

It was not until that evening that Harris discovered that he and Mr. Jones had something very much in common. He was helping the old man remove his pajama jacket before giving him his bath when he saw the blue tinted scarring that snaked across his ribs from just to the left of his spine and curving around, he saw, to the abdomen. He felt a little shaken. He had never seen such a bad one. He knew the agony that such a scar implied and could not imagine surviving such an injury, especially since Mr. Jones could not have been a young man when it happened.

Mr. Jones seemed to feel some reaction. He said quietly, “It was caused by one of the weapons the Xerack used.”

“Yes, I know,” Harris said, equally quiet in his tone. He came around to face the old man and pulled off his own uniform jacket, pulled up the sleeve of his t-shirt to show him the mark of the Xerack that ran across his bicep. Their eyes met in understanding. This was something that all those touched by the Xerack shared.

Harris replaced his uniform quickly. “Do you still get pain echoes from the wound, sir? If so, you must tell me at once. There is a new medication that is very helpful.”

Mr. Jones shook his head, laying back to let Harris begin washing him. “It rarely bothers me these days, Jonathan. What about you?”

Harris shrugged. He said, “I did not think the Xerack landed in the United Kingdom. You are English, are you not?”

The old eyes flared, “I am _not_. I am Welsh, Jonathan. I realize at this distance it may seem like the same, but I assure you it is not.”

For a moment, Harris thought he had genuinely offended the old man, then saw the amusement dancing in the blue eyes. So Harris smiled and replied, “I will remember that, Ianto.” He continued speaking as he worked, in order to take attention away from the enforced intimacy that the bathing required. “You much have been quite an old man when they came.”

Mr. Jones laughed softly. “Oh, yes, long retired, tending my little garden and enjoying my grandchildren.” He sighed. “I was visiting an old friend in the States. Just bad timing. You must have been quite a young man when they came.”

Harris suppressed a sigh. It was true. “I was. Just a child, really.”

Very, very quietly, Mr. Jones murmured, “You lost many family.” It was a statement, not a question.

“All of them. That is why I ended up in Johannesburg.” He helped get the clean pajama bottoms up the slender legs. “You lost family?”

Mr. Jones was silent a moment. Then he said, “Two of my children were killed.”

Harris looked up into pale blue eyes and saw an infinite loss. He imagined a moment what he would feel if his daughters were killed. He could not imagine it. In real distress, he said, “Oh, I am so sorry, Ianto.”

Mr. Jones patted his shoulder gently, “It’s alright. I am alright.”

“I have two daughters. I can’t imagine what it would be like if…”

“They were soldiers, Jonathan. They fought for their people, for this whole planet. I couldn’t ask them not to do that.” He sighed. “I miss them every day. Even though I didn’t really see them all that often in those days.” He let Harris lower him gently back on to the bed. “And I am very proud of them.”

“Yes.” Harris said softly. “Of course you are.” He pulled the blanket up over the frail body. “I am sorry you lost them, sir.”

Mr. Jones chuckled softly, “You are what they fought for, Jonathan. You and all the others. That’s what my kids wanted. They fought them and beat them and our world goes on and you have two little girls.” His eyes fluttered closed. In a voice so soft, Jonathan had to lean over to hear him, he added, “That’s what they wanted.”

And Jonathan knew that losing Mr. Jones was going to hurt him badly.


	2. Show Me Slowly

_Show me slowly all I only know the limits of_

The soft hum of the heart support pump and the even softer sound of the old man breathing gave Harris a comfortable feel. He checked all the readings, then straightened and smoothed the bedding. Mr. Jones did not awake. There was a faint smile on his features, and Harris wondered if he were dreaming.

*******

_Let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone._

 

The pain hit so suddenly, so massively that even though it was all too familiar and not at all unexpected, he had only enough time to push the emergency button buried in the skin under his ear before he could do nothing but scream.

When he became aware again it was in pieces, with bright flairs of heightened sensation: the feel of a blanket soft against his upper arm; the subdued sound of a heart monitor beeping; the faint squeak of the shoes of an attendant in the hall outside; the smell of an antiseptic; the feel of trembling lips touching the backs of the middle and third fingers of his right hand. It was the feel of a singe drop of something warm and wet falling on that hand that seemed to give him enough to hold on to. He opened his eyes.

Jack was holding Ianto’s hand in both his, head down, occasionally lifting the hand to his lips. He made no obvious sound, but another tear hit Ianto’s hand.

“Hey,” he managed to say.

Jack’s head snapped up and Ianto saw red rimmed blue eyes surrounded by wet lashes. He reached and Jack, still holding his hand, helped him move that hand so his fingers could trace the track of another tear. “ _Cariad_ ,” he whispered. Then Jack’s mouth was on his, warm and loving. Ianto petted him, caressing the wet face, the soft hair that Jack insisted on wearing so much shorter than was the fashion for men his apparent age. “Jack,” he said, and added, “My love, please don’t.”

Another wave of pain twisted through him, a pale ghost of what had happened before. He tried, but could not help twisting against that pain, could not stop a little whimper. Jack whispered, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”  
Finally the pain was gone, and Ianto straightened in the bed, taking Jack’s face in his hand, lifting it to look at his husband. “You have nothing to feel sorry for.”

But Jack spoke with a voice broken by emotion. “It’s been eight years! Eight bloody years and it can still do that to you. Gods, Ianto.” He buried his face again, and Ianto could barely hear his whisper, “You went through all that because I was so bloody selfish. So selfish. Because I didn’t want to let you go. So _fucking_ selfish. And you’re _still_ going through it.”

Ianto had gone back to petting the weeping man who was pressing his face into the side of Ianto’s neck. “Shhh, _cariad_ , stop now. Jack, stop it.”

“I’m so sorry, Yan.”

“Look at me, Jack.”

Jack lifted his head reluctantly.

Ianto smiled at him. “I’m glad you were selfish.”

Jack shook his head. “You can’t be. Everything, everything that you’ve gone through—”

“Everything I’ve gone through has been with you.”

Jack shook his head again. 

Ianto raised an eyebrow at him. “I get no opinion?”

Jack drew a deep breath. “You begged me. You knew they were euthanizing some of the other patients and you begged me. And I wouldn’t let them. I stopped them. I made them keep you alive.”

“Yes, I know.”

Jack looked at him in astonishment. “You remember? You weren’t supposed to remember…”

Ianto shook his head. “I don’t remember. One of the doctors told me, just before we left there. I think he was trying to apologize for wanting to kill me. I think the fact that I survived made them wonder if the others might have made it. I told him they wouldn’t have. I told him that I was an experimental subject and that was why I survived.” He hesitated, then went on. “I think I got a little carried away about how the side effects had proven fatal in all but a few cases, which is why they never used the—um, I think I said it was something like a vaccine against the poison in the Xerack weapon. It sounded slightly more plausible than the truth. Any way, I convinced him I was a fluke and that he didn’t have to feel bad about not wasting scarce resources on patients who were going to die in agony anyway. I hope I did.” Jack was staring at him. “What?”

“I love you.”

“And I love you, and I am very, very glad that I’ve had these last eight years, and however many years I have left. I want you to stop worrying about it. This…” He waved a hand indicating the hospital room. “This is the price I pay for the privilege of being your husband a little longer and I am more than happy to pay it. Most of the time, you are worth it.”

“Most of the time?” Jack was taking several deep breaths, as if he were forcing himself to calm.

“Most of the time.”

“Now?”

Ianto touched his partner’s lips and whispered, “Most definitely now.”

Jack kissed him again. When Ianto made a little disappointed noise when he pulled away, Jack smiled at him and said, “I can’t take a chance on getting you all hot and bothered. You don’t want to have half the staff on this floor come rushing in here because your heart rate went up too much, do you? Think of the embarrassment when they just find an incredibly sexy young man making mad, passionate love to an incredibly beautiful old man.”

Ianto made a face.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just do best if I don’t think about what we look like from outside.”

Jack took his face in his hands and looked into his eyes. “We have had this conversation too many times, Ianto. I think you are still as beautiful as you were the night we first met. Remember that? In the park?”

Ianto nodded, feeling himself begin to smile. 

Jack still held his head. “You are still just as beautiful as you were.”

Ianto said, “Don’t be silly, Jack—”

Jack gave his head a little shake, and repeated sternly,“Just as beautiful.” Then he added, “A _lot_ more wrinklier, that’s all.”

And half the staff on the floor came running in to find what caused the sudden spike of their patient’s heart rate only to find him being held in the arms of a much younger man while both laughed hysterically.

*******

_Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long._

By the time of his fiftieth birthday, the days when they had to go to a gay club if they wanted to dance without being stared at were long gone. The couples around them were mostly heterosexual, but some were every other possible combination of genders and gender-specific clothing and nobody cared. Jack was in his element, eyes alight, gliding them across the floor. The current fad for old-style ballroom dancing, up to and including the waltz done in the grand style, had given them both a lot of pleasure, and tonight Jack had gotten them tickets to the biggest event of the admittedly somewhat subdued Cardiff season. More than two hundred people swirled around them. Some were in modern fashion, thin skin tight fabrics highlighted with glowing lights of a thousand different colors. Others were in nineteenth century finery. It was a fantastic combination that left Ianto feeling positively giddy as Jack twirled him around the dance floor to a Strauss waltz, though he conceded it was possible the champagne had had something to do with it.

When the waltz ended, they went back to their table. A waiter asked if they wanted another bottle. Jack said yes and Ianto said no at the same moment. The waiter smiled indulgently and waited. Ianto said, “I am already as high as a kite, Jack.” He lowered his voice, and leaned forward to whisper, “If you expect much in the way of fun and games tonight, I better back off.”

Jack grinned at him, ordered two large glasses of water. “Having fun?”

Ianto looked around at the huge room and all the people. He could remember a time when a sight like this would have sent him into the most shadowed corner, hoping no one would notice him. So much had changed. He looked over at Jack, smiling. “Oh, yes.”

A little later, during a long, slow dance, Jack murmured in his ear. “It’s nice seeing you all dressed up like this. Reminds me of those suits you used to wear, back when you first started working at the Hub.”

Ianto snuggled a little closer to Jack, smiling. “Tosh used to call those suits my protective coloration.”

“Hmmm. Why did you stop wearing them again?”

Ianto rolled his eyes, “The difficulty of getting strained carrots stains out of bespoke tailored wool probably.”

Jack tightened his grip. “Miss those days?”

“Miss our babies. Love what they have become.”

“I thought you were planning on killing Marta. So she said, anyway.”

Ianto laughed. “Oh, I am. I’m just waiting for the cruelest moment to do it.”

“Don’t.” 

Ianto sighed, “All teenage girls should be locked up in boxes and kept in dungeons, Jack. You said so yourself.”

Jack nuzzled Ianto’s ear, “Don’t kill my little baby girl.”

“Ah, see? Just as I said. They always knew their Dad was a softy and they always take full advantage.”

“If you kill her now, she can’t make us any grandbabies.”

Ianto ran a fingertip around the edge of Jack’s ear and said, “Got the taste for it now, huh?”

Jack grinned at him. “Don’t you?” They danced a while, quietly thinking about their tiny grandson, only a few weeks old, child of their eldest son.

Finally, Ianto sighed and said, “Oh, all right. I won’t kill her.”

Jack laughed, and kissed him. Over the loudspeaker, the MC called the last dance.

As they were leaving that night, in the crush that was headed for the car park, Ianto distinctly heard a somewhat drunken voice mutter something about robbing cradles. He glanced at Jack. Their eyes met and the gleam in Jack’s eye was the only warning he had before Jack grabbed him and pulled him into a soul-melting kiss that made Ianto lose track of absolutely everything for a moment. As he came back to earth, thinking _Twenty-five years and he can still make me forget my own name with just a kiss_ , he realized that there was a scattering of applause, and found that after 25 years, Jack could still make him blush. Jack grabbed his hand and pulled him along, laughing in delight at his own cleverness.

When they got into their car, Jack pulled him over and kissed him again, growling softly as he pulled at Ianto’s lower lip with his teeth. Ianto ran a finger over Jack’s lips and said, “I suppose that is going to start happening more and more.”

Jack shrugged. “Does it bother you?”

Ianto thought about that for a moment, then smiled, “I suppose it should. Instead I kind of like it. Sometimes I can practically hear them thinking ‘What’s that old man got that keeps that incredibly handsome and sexy young guy with him?’ ” 

“Mmmm,” Jack said, “Well if anyone ever asks me I can tell them, ‘Everything I want.’ ”

Ianto laughed, “You are getting soppy in your old age, Jack.”

And very early the next morning, as Ianto was falling head first into a completely sated sleep after Jack’s carefully crafted “Birthday Fuck” had left them both shaking and boneless, Ianto felt Jack pull him closer, and heard him whisper, “Everything I want.”

*******

_Dance me through the panic, ‘til I’m gathered safely in._

 

It had been several years since he’d been in the field and he found he’d forgotten how _hot_ blood pouring from a human body felt as is slipped between your fingers. He pushed down harder and Jack screamed. 

“I’m sorry, Jack. I’m so sorry. I have to get this bleeding stopped.” Then he heard the call connect and Sam’s pleasant baritone and he shouted, “Sam, get Jenny over here now. Jack’s hurt. Bad.” And hung up before Sam could ask questions. Jack moaned and Ianto told him, “It will be alright, _cariad_. Jenny will be here in a minute.” He was thankful that Torchwood technology would bring them straight to this spot, no directions needed.

Jack blinked at him, obviously trying to focus. His voice was a hoarse croak as he whispered, “Knife. Did you get the knife?”

Ianto stared at him in confusion. “What?” 

One of Jack’s bloody hands grabbed at Ianto’s shirt. The other went to his swollen belly. “You have to take her.”

Ianto’s mind seemed to freeze. For a long, horrible moment, he could not think anything. Jack cried out in pain again, and his fist in Ianto’s shirt tightened. “I’m bleeding out, Ianto _You have to take her_.”

It was impossible. This was not happening. He had just wanted to get Jack some fresh air. Jack had always said the worst thing about his pregnancies was the necessity of staying out of public view for three or four months, when he could no long pretend that he was just developing a beer belly. It meant he had to be at home or in the Hub for months at a time and by the end of each of his pregnancies, he’d been miserable. Tonight, he’d been restless and cranky and complaining about the need for another month of this. When he’d stared down at his swollen abdomen and snarled. “You better be worth this,” Ianto knew he needed to get him out of the house for a while and had thought about packaging their two sleeping sons into the car for a drive, when Sam, Grace, and Jenny had stopped by on their way home to talk to Jack about some brouhaha that had developed with U.N.I.T., and Ianto had unashamedly recruited them for babysitting, put Jack into a large hoodie that would actually fit around him and took him out into the frigid winter night.

All very well, and a clear, cold night, perfect for a brisk walk. It was a nice neighborhood, quite a way from the center of Cardiff, perfect for raising their children, and on this one night they’d managed to be passing not far from their favorite pub and talking about how nice it would be to go in for a pint, knowing they couldn’t, and had gotten mugged by the three stupidest muggers on the fucking planet. All three big and stupid and drunk, and maybe stoned and couldn’t seem to get it into their heads that neither Jack nor Ianto intended any resistance. They also couldn’t get their minds around the idea that neither of their victims had any money. When one of them hit Ianto on the side of the head with a piece of copper pipe, Jack’s reaction had been instinctive.

The only trouble was that Jack was very pregnant. And, though muggers these days in Cardiff usually contented themselves with some variety of cosh, one of them had a knife. 

So now… Ianto pulled his belt off, bundled his own hoodie directly over the wound in Jack’s inner thigh, and tightened the belt around it as tight as he could. Jack screamed in pain again, and then whispered hoarsely, “You can’t wait until I’m dead, Ianto, you have to do it _now_.” 

Ianto patted him on the side of the face and said, “I know, Jack. I will,” amazed at how calm he sounded. They’d talked about it. What would happen if Jack died while he was carrying a baby? They didn’t know, but Jack strongly suspected that they would lose even a late term baby in that situation. That was why, unless the world really was about to end, Jack did not do field work while he was pregnant. 

Ianto looked frantically around, praying the knife had been dropped. He found it, three feet away lying in a half-frozen puddle, an old fashioned folding knife that had to be very sharp, considering how deep the hapless swipe had gone, knicking Jack’s femoral artery and leaving him crying out, “Hurry, Yan. Oh, gods, hurry. I can’t lose her. Please…”

Ianto closed his eyes for one moment, trying to force himself to think rationally. There was no way to do this gently, but he couldn’t be quick and brutal because he might cut their daughter. He opened his eyes to see Jack staring at him. Jack nodded, then closed his own eyes. Ianto used the knife to slit both layers of clothing, spreading the cloth, baring Jack’s belly. He took a deep breath and drew the edge of the knife down the length of Jack’s abdomen. The skin slit cleanly. Yes, the knife was very sharp. Blood surged out of the opening and Jack’s cry of pain was expressed through his clenched teeth. His body tried to curl around the new wound so that Ianto had to put his knee on Jack’s legs to hold him down while he sliced through more tissues while Jack screamed helplessly. There was a sudden gush of amniotic fluids, momentarily washing the blood away, and Jack screamed again and then there was just a sort of hiccupping cough and his body stilled. The heat of Jack’s body condensed water vapor into a thin cloud trail that lifted from the open wound. Ianto slipped his hand into the opening he’d created, and used his fingers to guide the knife as he made the opening bigger. The baby inside moved against his hand. 

He didn’t hear the car pull up. He just suddenly realized there was another pair of hands helping him, and a voice said, “Pull back here. Pull hard, Ianto.” and Ianto did and suddenly there was a tiny face coming out of the gory mess that had been his husband’s abdomen and those extra hands wiped some of the blood off and the little lips opened and there was a little squeak. Then the voice said, “Okay, I’ve got her, just take the scalpel and extend the incision.”

Ianto did as he was told, not letting himself look at his daughter’s bloody face. He took the large scalpel Jenny had handed him, and carefully sliced through the layers of Jack’s uterus. There was another, smaller gush of amniotic fluid, then Jenny was pulling the tiny little girl away from her dead parent. Ianto could only watch as Jenny tipped the feebly moving baby upside down and pressed gently on her abdomen. He saw the mucus coming out of her mouth, saw Jenny trying to wipe it away. But tiny girl was still struggling, not really breathing yet. With her free hand, Jenny grabbed a hemostat from the medical kit and clipped it around the umbilical chord.

Then there was something warm around him. He looked down, saw one of the self-heating blankets being draped around him, and one tiny part of him wondered how much of his shaking was cold and how much was shock while the rest of him held on to the scream that wanted out as he watched Jenny trying to help the tiny blood-covered child. _Oh please, baban, you have to breath_ , was the only coherent thought. The rest was just screaming.

Jenny snapped, “Sam, get that IV bag, cut about a 30 or 40 cm of tubing. Quick.”

Sam’s huge hands worked, while Jenny, still holding the baby almost upside down, rubbed her little body vigorously. The little arms and legs were still moving, but even in the highly focused, one-source light of the headlamps of the SUV it was easy to see how blue she was. Then Sam handed the tube to Jenny, who stuck one end carefully down the baby’s throat and sucked gently on the other end. Ianto saw the mucus moving up the tube. Jenny pulled it out, and Ianto’s little daughter sucked in a breath and let out a gurgling squawk. Jenny blew the mucus out of the tube and stuck it down the baby’s throat again, sucked, pulled out more mucus. This time, when Jenny pulled the tube out the baby screamed in outrage.

Jenny laughed, her voice suddenly shaking, “Oh, I know. Mean old Aunt Jenny, how could I? That’s it, sweetheart. You tell the world.” She used a pair of surgical scissors to sever the chord. Then she looked up at Ianto’s white face and said, “Tad, I think you need to rescue your little girl from her bad Aunty.” And she put the baby into Ianto’s arms, pulling the blanket around them both, using one corner to wipe more blood and mucus from the furious little face. 

Sam said, “Here comes, Karl,” and Ianto was only vaguely aware of the arrival of another member of this Torchwood team. All his attention was focused on the crying baby in his arms.

Jenny stuck her fingers under his chin, lifted his face. “Come on, Ianto. Need you to listen.”

Ianto stared at her, blinking. 

“Karl is here. I am going to take the baby to the A & E. I assume you want to stay with Jack until he comes back?”

Ianto looked over to Jack, saw that Sam had covered him with a blanket as well and felt a surge of deep gratitude for the big man. 

But Jenny’s voice was insistent, “Ianto. I need you to let me have the baby.” Ianto saw she had taken off her own jacket and was holding it, open, ready for him to put the baby into the body-warmed folds. When he hesitated, she said, “She looks pretty good right now, but she is, what? three weeks premature?”

Ianto nodded.

“Right. So I am going to take her to the A & E and see that she gets care from people who see more babies than dead aliens, okay?”

Ianto nodded again, and this time was able to put his angry daughter on the open coat, and watched as Jenny wrapped her, then got up and headed for the car she had arrived in. Ianto drew a deep breath and turned to Jack. 

Jack’s eyes were open, staring at the sky. Dead eyes. Ianto straightened the blanket around him. His fingers touched the dead lips. 

Karl’s soft Bavarian accent was near his ear. “How long will take?”

Ianto remembered that though Karl knew about Jack, had seen some old CCTV of a revival, he had never actually witnessed it before. Ianto tried to speak, found that he couldn’t. Realized that he had at last started to cry.

Jack always took longer when he exsanguinated. It was nearly half and hour later that the sound Ianto had been waiting for came. The deep, desperate gasp to fill empty lungs. Jack sat up, gasped again, saw Ianto. Then he dropped his hands to his flat belly and screamed, “NO!”

Ianto got his arms around him, “It’s alright, Jack. She’s okay. We got her out. Jenny’s got her.” 

Jack’s hands on him were frantic, eyes searching Ianto’s face, “She’s okay?”

“She’s okay. Jenny just wanted her in hospital to make sure because she’s a little premature.” He managed to smile a little. “I wish you could have heard her. She was not happy about being made to get up so early.”

Jack collapsed against, Ianto, who held him, rocking him a little. “She’s okay?”

“She’s okay.”

Karl was there, staring at Jack with perhaps just a little awe in his usually cynical eyes. “Congratulations, Pappas. When you are ready I will take you home, so you can clean up and then get to the hospital. Then I’ll get back here and help Sam with cleanup.”

Jack shifted, looked down at the massive pool of blood that surrounded him. 

Karl chuckled, “Not that.” He pointed. “That.”

About fifteen people were being kept well away by a pair of Cardiff PCs who looked anything but happy with the situation. 

“I’m afraid the noise brought out a bunch. Sam says they got here just in time. A couple of guys had finally worked up the courage and were about to try to stop you, Ianto.”

Ianto looked at the crowd. This was the first time he’d even noticed. “You can just use standard procedures to deal with it.”

Karl held out a small brown bottle. “Yes, sir. Jenny said to tell you she was going to hit them with Protocol 30 when she got to St. David’s and if the Prime Minister didn’t like it she was going to offer to let him kiss her, and I quote, ‘very nice, firm, round, freckled Irish arse.’ So you can go in there and wave your Torchwood ID and there will be no trouble.”

Jack was struggling to get up, with Ianto helping. “Thanks, Karl.”

As they started away, each supporting and being supported by the other, Karl called, “Did you ever settle on a name?”

Ianto called back, “Marta Rose. She’s Marta Rose Harkness-Jones.”

*******

_Dance me to the children who are asking to be born._

 

It was a nice house, almost a hundred years old, though the For Sale sign insisted that it was “Completely modernized throughout.” It had been in a little village that had been swallowed by Cardiff’s relentless expansion and most of its original grounds were covered with smaller, less well-made homes. Still, there was a nice little front garden and it looked like the back garden was actually fairly large, at least by modern standards. Ianto looked at the house, then looked at Jack.

“Weavil attack all the way out here?”

Jack shook his head, then cleared his throat. He stared out at the house without speaking.

“Jack?”

Jack took his hand, with both of his, raised it to his lips. “Ianto Jones, I fought you. I did. I didn’t want to love you. I told myself it was just sex and it was just friends but in the end I finally had to give in. I’m a coward, always have been. I’ve run away from so many people I wanted to love, people who loved me. But you…” Jack brought Ianto’s hand up and kissed the fingers again. “It was too late the night you helped me with that damned weavil. I never had a chance.”

“Jack, what are you talking about?”

“I’m going to lose you, Ianto. You are going to die.”

Ianto took a deep breath. They had never really discussed this. Oh, there had been the occasional remark, but no real discussion.

But before Ianto could say anything, Jack continued, “For a while I I kept thinking, ‘I can’t do this. I can’t bear it’. It was especially bad that time you were kidnapped.”

Ianto touched his cheek softly. “I know.”

Jack leaned forward and brushed his lips across Ianto’s. Staring deeply into his eyes, he said, “Last month I realized that there was no way out. It doesn’t matter when it happens. Tonight, next week, when you’re seventy. It doesn’t matter. It’s going to be so bad.” His voice had been solemn, but now he smiled. It was the smile that only Ianto ever saw. The smile that was Jack. “And I decided that since it’s going to be bad, I want _now_ to be good. I want to live a life with you, Ianto. A real life. Or as real as I can make it. As real as Torchwood will let it be.” He took a deep breath. “Ianto, will you marry me?”

For a long moment, Ianto stared at him in astonishment.. Then he stuttered, “We can’t get married, you daft…”

Jack shook his head. “Civil partnership, what ever. That’s for _them_. For us, I want you to be my husband, Ianto.”

Ianto found he’d pulled his hand free, because the fingers of both hands were on Jack’s lips. There was no sound in the car for long moment. Then Ianto said, in a soft, husky voice, “I want you to be my husband, Jack.”

They kissed for quite a while, mouths hungry, but not, unusually, for sex. Finally, Ianto pulled away a little and looked at the house. “So, we are going to buy this?”

Jack grinned at him. “You always stay a step ahead of me, don’t you. Yes, if you like it. If you don’t, we’ll find another one.”

Ianto lay back against Jack’s chest and looked at the house. “It looks very nice from here. But it’s a little big. I mean for just the two of us.”

Jack’s arm’s tightened around him. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, eventually… I mean if you want to… I swore never again, but for you…” Ianto turned to look at him in puzzlement. Jack said, “For you…”

*******

Ianto couldn’t help giggling. He was not drunk. True, they’d had a good bit of wine with the meal they’d completed a short time ago. True, he felt a little giddy. Still, he was not actually drunk. He was giggling at the absurdity of what he was about to do.

He caressed Jack’s cock, enjoying the velvet skin over the hardness, slipping his hand down, gently cupping the testicles. Jack wiggled, then pulled his arms in and sat up partially, bracing himself on his elbows. 

“Okay, on the perineum, about a third of the way between the scrotum and anus. See it?”

Ianto had gotten a little sidetracked by the wonderful and completely familiar feel of his new husband’s genitals. He moved so he could see the place Jack was talking about. “This? This little dimple?” He moved his index finger over the spot that looked like a small fold of skin. He’s seen it before, of course. He knew the surface of Jack’s body almost at the cellular level. In the past, however, the area had not been flushed pink, with a distinct crease where in the past had been a tiny little pucker of skin. 

Jack lay back, his breath catching. “Yeah.” He laughed. “Yes, that’s it. The hormones make it swell a little and the channel to my uterus opens.”

Ianto scrutinized the place carefully. “It’s pretty small. I’m not sure the catheter will even fit.” 

Jack pulled him up, until his head was tucked under Jack’s chin. “To I detect some unease, _asham_?”

Ianto sighed, tightening his grip on Jack. “Maybe a little. I’m not sure if it’s the weirdness or just the ordinary jitters of a bloke about to try to get his beloved pregnant. It’s a big step.” He hesitated a moment. “Jack, are you doing this because you think I want it or because _you_ want it.”

Jack sighed. In a soft voice he said, “A long time ago, I carried a baby.”

Ianto sat up, staring at the closed eyes and the mouth that trimbled. “Jack.”

“A little boy. He was seven months when… I— I got hurt. He got hurt too. He bled out before they could get to him.”

Ianto had no idea what to say or do. For years he had wanted to know more about Jack’s past, part simple curiosity and part a desire to understand the man he had fallen in love with. Over the past year or so Jack had occasionally mention a story from his past that was nothing like his usual and-there-we-were-totally-nude-in-the-king’s-harem stories. These were usually just brief snapshots, mentions of swimming in the warm waters of a bay when he was a child, things his knife-fighting tutor said, descriptions of sunsets on alien worlds. But there had been nothing like this. 

Jack drew another breath. “I told myself for years that it was just as well. I hadn’t wanted to get pregnant, and anyway, I’d have made a terrible father.”

“Oh, Jack,” Ianto whispered in distress.

“I was forced into the pregnancy. But once I felt him move, I knew I had to give him a chance. I had to find a way out for him.”

“A way out from where, Jack?”

Jack turned his head and looked Ianto in the eye. “I swear, Ianto, I will tell you the whole story, but tonight I just want to make sure you understand. Yes, I want a baby. I always have. And yes, I want it to be your baby. Our baby.”

Ianto felt a smile form on his lips. “So do I.”

Jack leaned forward and kissed him. With a full-blown Jack-leer, he murmured, “Then let’s make one,” and he slithered down his husband’s body and took Ianto’s cock in his mouth. With blow jobs, Jack usually liked to tease Ianto into a completely incoherent mass of pleasure before bringing him off, but this time, while he had no appearance of being in a hurry, he also did not back off the first time Ianto approached orgasm. Still, the explosion in Ianto’s body was powerful.

As he regained a sense of time and place, he realized that Jack had timed things well, removing Ianto from his mouth at the exact moment that orgasm became inevitable. Ianto looked down and saw that Jack was examining the little plastic bag in which he had caught the majority of the sperm that Ianto had produced. He looked up, met Ianto’s eyes, and a happy smile spread across his features.

They’d practiced this part. Ianto knew exactly how to attach the bag to the little pump mechanism, exactly how to insert the catheter into the skin fold that marked the equivalent of a vagina, knew it needed to be at least 4 cm into the narrow little channel. He was a little nervous about this part, and when Jack gasped once, his eyes jerked up and his hands stilled “Did I hurt you?”

Jack laughed softly, “No, love. It feels good. It doesn’t have the kind of enervation that a female has, but it does feel good.”

Ianto smiled shyly and continued the insertion of the thin tubing into Jack’s body. When he reached the mark on the tube, he looked up again.

“Ready?”

Jack nodded, looking a little breathless. 

Ianto pushed the plunger. Michael, by far the most mechanically inclined member of Torchwood they’d had in Ianto’s experience, had constructed the little device to Jack’s specifications. It worked silently, pushing Ianto’s semen through the tube into Jack’s body. When it was done, he gently removed the tubing. He realized he was feeling a little breathless himself. Then he looked up and saw the expression of joy that glowed in Jack’s face, and found himself laughing. He crawled up to take Jack’s face in his hands and kissed him, still laughing. 

Yes, definitely giddy.

*******

Harris looked down at the sleeping man, feeling a touch of sorrow. The readings for the past two days had been getting worse. The heart failure was progressing. Short of some heroic measures, Mr. Jones was not going to be here much longer. And he had very explicitly said he wanted no heroic measures. “Not this time.”

Harris noticed that the picture had changed to one of Mr. Jones holding a baby in a pale pink blanket while two dark-headed boys, one about thirteen or fourteen and the other no more than five or six, peeked at her. He sighed remembering that two of them were gone now, wondering which one had survived the invasion. 

_To everything there is a season_ , he reminded himself, and closed the door very quietly as he left.


	3. Dance me through the curtains

_Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn_

 

Harris was frankly a little anxious when he came back from his 4 days at home with his daughters. Mr. Jones’ condition had been slowly deteriorating and Harris was not sure that he would still be there.

But he was. He saw the name on the board at the nurse’s station and felt some relief. Which was silly, of course. He accepted that the old man would be gone soon. For some reason he wanted to be here when it happened. Harris shook his head at himself and started on his rounds.

He was coming out of a patient’s room when he saw Dr. Senghor coming toward him from the west wing. He had always liked the little Fula woman. She was quite short, walked with her back very straight and wore her graying hair in a short, even cap over her head. When he greeted her, she stopped to talk.

“Did you have a good time off, Jonathan?”

“Yes. My youngest daughter has lost both her upper front incisors.” He showed her the picture on his PDA. 

“Ah, they are beautiful little girls.” 

“I saw you coming out of Mr. Jones’ room. How is he?”

She shrugged. “His cardiomyopathy is progressing as expected. He will not live much longer, I think. And his grandson has returned. I believe he was just waiting for him. I think he will let go now.”

Harris nodded.

She put a hand on his arm, and said gently, “You are very fond of him, aren’t you?”

Jonathon smiled. “He is a good man.”

She smiled. There was, he realized, a sad look in her eyes, “He reminds me of my Jamie.” She smiled when she saw the question in his eyes, knowing he would not ask. “I knew his son, James. Long ago. We were engaged to be married.” She leaned back against the wall, and as she spoke, her voice was full of old happiness and old sorrow. “I met him at the first hospital I worked at. He was a surgical attending. I was so determined not to get involved with him. I was ambitious as hell and had no time for anything but work. He’d lost his wife about two years before and really had no intention of falling in love ever again.” She looked up at Harris with a rather devilish grin. “So we were friends. We were just friends for six years.” 

Harris answered her smile with one of his own. “And then?”

“And then one day we were more than friends. After a while I asked him to marry me and he said yes.” She was still smiling, her eyes seeing something long ago. Then she sighed. “The invasion started three weeks later.”

Harris’ mind suddenly put several things together. In an almost reverent tone he said, “James Harkness-Jones. Owen Harkness-Jones. Estelle Harkness-Jones. The three siblings that were part of the Twelve.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

Harris looked down the hallway toward the door to Mr. Jones’ room. “He told me he lost two of his children in the invasion. He did not say they were part of the team that ended it.” His eyes went to Dr. Senghor. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “It was a long time ago. I have had a good life. I admit it was a while before I could even consider someone else, but I did eventually marry and I’ve been happy. Jamie would have liked that.”

Harris said, “Mr. Jones told me his children wanted people to be able to have their lives. That is what they died for.”

She nodded. “Yes,” she said again.

They were quiet a few moments, then Harris said. “That is why he is here, so far from his home? He knew you?”

“Actually we didn’t meet until he was brought here last month. But we did keep in touch and he knew I had switched to geriatrics. I think the main reason he is here is that he wanted to be separate from his family in these last weeks of his life. I know his eldest son died last year. His only remaining child is part of that scientific colony on the moon. I think she is a physicist of some kind. Jack told me Mr. Jones didn’t want the grandkids disrupting their lives by taking time out to sit with him. Except Jack himself, of course.”

“The grandson who is here?”

She straightened. “Yes. Well, thank you for listening to me prattle on, Jonathan. I really need to get back to work.”

“Of course, Doctor.”

He watched her as she continued down the corridor, thinking, _He fathered three of the Twelve. This whole planet owes him everything._ Then he thought of his little girls and thought, _Oh, the price he paid for us._

*******

When Harris knocked softly on Mr. Jones’ door there was no answer. He entered quietly and saw his patient was asleep on the bed. The door that led out to the garden was open and a tall man stood there, looking out at the flowers, the river, and the jungle beyond while the rain poured down.

Harris checked the readings on the equipment and noticed that the picture on the table next to the heart support pump had changed again. Now there were four children in what looked like a formal pose, dressed nicely, the eldest about 20, the youngest a toddler. Two boys and two girls, all dark-headed. All beautiful. 

Harris glanced at the man in the doorway again, wondering whose child he was, wondering if he, too, lost a parent in the invasion. As if he had heard this troubling thought, the man turned, saw Harris, and smiled.

This was a man of about 30 to 35, tall, well built and quite astonishingly handsome. The smile was genuine enough, but Harris saw he looked tired. He came forward, hand outstretched.

“Jack Harkness.”

“I am glad to meet you, sir. I am Jonathan Harris. I am the nurse in charge of Mr. Jones’ care while he is here.” He saw the man glance over at the bed, saw a look he could not interpret cross his features.

“How has he been?”

“Comfortable, I believe. Of course, anyone of his age has aches and pains, but we control those well.”

Mr. Harkness turned away, going back to the door. “Dr. Senghor says his condition is deteriorating.”

Jonathan shrugged, realized Mr. Harkness could not see that, and said, “Well, yes. But that is to be expected.”

Mr. Harkness sighed. “I didn’t mean for him to be alone here.” He paused. “This is a beautiful place.”

“Yes,” Harris murmured. For once, he was finding it difficult to keep from plying a whole series of inappropriate questions. Not that Harkness would probably have minded talking about his family. But Harris had made it a habit over a number of years to avoid even the normal questions that would be common in casual conversations, preferring to let patients and family members initiate any such discussions. In this setting, it was too easy for such “normal” questions to cause painful memories. His patients or their families often told him a great deal, and he enjoyed listening, but he never initiated the conversation. Except he wanted to, now. Some of it was just a rather morbid curiosity. Some of it was a bit of, to be honest, hero-worship. This man’s family had saved them all. He believed that the human race would have fought them off eventually anyway, but the Twelve, along with all the others who died supporting them, had ended the attempted occupation within months instead of years. 

Part of it was that Harris had taken an immediate liking to the old man in the bed behind them, had felt a deep connection to him, had enjoyed his company. Part of it was how much he was going to miss him.

“Jack!”

Harris turned and saw that Mr. Jones had wakened. The blue eyes were locked on the figure in the doorway and they were alight with pleasure. Harkness brushed past Harris, going to the bed, taking Mr. Jones’ outstretched hand and leaning over to kiss his forehead. “Good morning,” he said cheerfully.

Harris saw an old hand reach up to caress the cheek of the younger man, and decided it was time to leave them alone. He started for the door, but was called back by Mr. Jones. “How was your time at home, Jonathan?”

Harris came to stand on the other side of the bed. “It was good.”

“Jack, this is Jonathan Harris. He has been taking care of me and providing company.”

Harkness was looking at Mr. Jones, with a warm smile. “Yes, we met.” He glanced up at Harris and smiled like a flash of sunlight. “I’m glad you had someone nice to talk with.”

*******

Later that day, as Harris was bringing Mr. Jones his lunch, he paused outside the door, hand raised to knock, because he heard Mr. Jones’ voice, slightly raised, sounding… well, somewhat irritated, but also rather sad and rather compassionate.

“Jack, please don’t be so silly. Of course, you’ll be relieved. I know you’ll miss me, but the truth is it will be a kind of liberation and there is nothing wrong with—”

“Don’t say that. Damn it, Ianto, don’t even _think_ that.” 

“Oh, Jack.”  
There was silence for a moment, so Harris knocked, somewhat louder than usual, paused longer than usual and then went into the room.

*******

The scene in the room the next morning when Harris came in was very much as it had been the day before. Mr. Jones was asleep. Harkness stood in the open doorway watching the rain pour down on the flagstones outside. Harris went to the bed, made a slight adjustment.

“He didn’t start sleeping so much until about three or four years ago.”

Harris glanced up, saw that Harkness had turned and was regarding him. Harris said, “It’s not uncommon at his age.”

Harkness nodded. Looking at the still figure on the bed, he said, “I miss him.” He stuck his hands deep into his pockets and studied the floor intently. “I suppose it will make losing him a little easier. He is not so much a daily presence in my life as he used to be.”

“But you will still miss him.”

Harkness looked up at the bed again. “Every day. Forever.”

*******

Just before he went off shift that evening he stopped by to investigate a significant increase in Mr. Jones’ heart rate. As he approached the door, he heard a man’s voice singing, a clear, rich tenor. The tune was not one that Harris recognized, and as he listened to the words, he realized it must be quite old.

“…And if I tried,  
I still couldn't hide  
My love for you,  
You ought to know,  
For haven't I told you so,  
A million or more times?”

He opened the door and saw Harkness, with Mr. Jones’ heart support pump on it’s strap over one shoulder, holding the frail old man in his arms, dancing slowly around the room, singing. Mr. Jones had his arms around Harkness’ neck, his head resting on his shoulder. He had his eyes closed, but be was smiling broadly. He looked almost radiantly happy.

“You went away and my heart went with you.” Harris heard a sudden tightness in the clear voice at that line, a roughness. Then the voice cleared again, “I speak your name in my ev'ry prayer;  
If there is some other way  
To prove that I love you,  
I swear I don't know how;  
You'll never know if you don't know now.”

As the song ended, Harris saw Mr. Jones lift his head, and pull Harkness down to a kiss that was very obviously not the kiss of a grandfather to a grandson. He saw the old man rest his head back on the broad shoulder, still smiling happily. 

A little later, Harkness found Harris about to leave for the night. “You saw him kiss me.”

Harris nodded. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was concerned about a reading.”

Harkness watched him putting on his coat. Then he said, “I look a lot like my granddad. Sometimes he gets a little confused.”

Harris, who had remembered the photo he’d seen the day he met Mr. Jones, had already come to that conclusion. “Does that bother you?”

Harkness shook his head. “No.”

Harris said, “I know he loved your grandfather very much.”

Harkness smiled. “Yeah. He did.” Then he turned and walked away, back towards his grandfather’s room.

*******

The next morning, as requested, Harris met with Dr. Senghor outside Mr. Jones’ room. She looked as if she were deliberately forcing a professional attitude over sadness. She said, in a lowered voice, “Jonathan, Mr. Jones has requested that we stop all medical treatment.” She paused a moment to let the implications of that statement sink in, then continued, “In particular he wants the heart support pump removed. The only treatment he wants at this time is for any pain that may occur.”

Harris stared at her wordlessly for a moment. Then he nodded. “Very well, Doctor.”

They went together into the room. Mr. Jones was awake, talking very quietly to Harkness. They both turned to look as the medical staff came in. When Dr. Senghor nodded to Harris he began turning off bedside monitors, though some of the readings would still be fed to his PDA and to the nursing station. While Dr. Senghor removed the heart support pump, Mr. Jones spoke to Jonathan. “I wanted to thank you for the good care and the company, Jonathan. You’ve been a good friend.”

Harris looked into his old blue eyes and saw…peace. At that moment, he was able to let go. He smiled and said, “I will miss you, Ianto. I have been lucky to share this time with you.”

He and the doctor worked a few minutes longer and then left the room. Harris looked back and saw Harkness had resumed his seat beside the bed and was holding Mr. Jones hand in both his, tucked up under his chin, his expression calm.

*******

Harris returned to the room shortly after the monitors in the nurses station told him that Mr. Jones had died. Jack Harkness still sat beside the bed, holding the old man’s hand in his. Harris stood quietly a moment, then moved to where he knew Harkness could see him. Again he stood quietly. Finally he said softly, “He’s gone, Mr. Harkness.”

Harkness was silent a moment. Then he said, “I know.” His posture straightened slightly. “I was just… remembering” After another moment, he added. “He gave me everything. Everything he had. Everything he was. Almost his entire life.” Harris did not understand that last sentiment but chose not to worry about it. “He thought I would feel relieved.”

“Do you?” He knew family often did, and often felt guilty for that.

“Not for me. But for him? Yes. He was so tired.” He lifted the fingers he was holding to his lips. 

There was another long silence. Finally Harkness sighed. “Only one thing left to do.” He looked down at the hand he held. “I have to let go of his hand.”

“There is no hurry,” Harris said quietly. He was not sure why, but he felt a deep pang of grief. Not for the old man, but for this young man. There were no tears, no obvious distress. But the tone of voice struck Harris deep in his heart.

“No hurry. But no point in avoiding the inevitable.” He laid the hand he held on the bed, and without releasing it he stood, leaned forward and kissed the lips of the quiet figure on the bed. He stood looking down at him a moment longer, then he slowly removed his hands from the fingers he still held. Harris thought he saw a tear roll down his cheek, but once his fingers had left those of the old man, he simply straightened, turned, and walked out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Jack sings is "You'll Never Know" by Harry Warren and Mack Gordon.


End file.
